FSE

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Nearly three hours have passed since Marek Blakesley had vied over the humongous warg, his corpse, once a tyrannical bulk that inflicted fear upon any living being, now reduced to a generous appetizer for scavengers and vermin, like the carcass of a reindeer.

It was a shame Marek could not skin the warg’s hide and sell it to some itemcrafter — warg’s hide was fancied among many fighters due to its iron-proof endurance. A cloak crafted from the remains of the alpha warg could bear benefits above that of the manticore garment he currently wore.

Nevertheless, Marek was not eager to shuck the tough hide off the fibrous carcass, let alone drag the pelt across nature and find someone to trade the ware with.

The curtain of dusk stretched over the firmament, and the lights of the blazing sphere disappeared beyond the horizon, replaced now by the faint glow of the stars and the northern lights. Now, his magical ax, Iousterard, was the only significant source of light available, gleaming bewitchingly under the stars. Nonetheless, the ax’s luster not only differed from a torch’s but also worked like a beacon for predators.

But Blakesley had major concerns than mere furry assailants, whose incessant wailing had dropped to occasional distant cries. His priority was finding shelter against the bitter cold.

The human fighter passed the last hour preparing a lodge for himself to pass the night, the first night of many out in the wild Arctic.

The environment had shifted after several hours, and now Marek stood amid a wider valley, walled by ranges of hills whose crests were discernible from the valley floor. Marek walked up to a hillside, and between two pines, he found a ‘suitable’ campsite: a felled tree with no more than three yards of length.

Unsatisfied with the natural hut the Frostscape provided, the cloaked man used his enchanted ax to cut branches to cover the gaps in the wooden structure and shovel the snow from where he was going to lay his aching body. The final result of his labor was a snowless pit with a rampart about three and a half feet tall.

Calling it a shelter would be generous; it was a mere windbreak. The dissatisfaction was apparent in the man’s face, his lips tightening and brows furrowing. “Camping is definitely not your forte, Blakesley.”

Despite everything, the newly made ditch would serve its purpose. The frigid winds of the Frostscape struck any living being like an invisible stabsword that bypassed the hardest of shields, a night more than enough to bring death upon unprotected individuals.

Marek’s wounds might have healed already, but his boot and glove were tattered by warg’s gnashers, leaving his exposed skin vulnerable to the biting cold. His wrappings, perforated by fangs, also left the item exposed to moisture. The gadget he carried on his back was durable but prone to rusting; thus, it was imperative not to let snow particles blow inside the textiles.

With the campsite prepared, the only task left was eating. Marek did not pass the last three hours dawdling and kicking the snow beneath his boots. He, too, took some bushes prone to catch fire as well as hunting an arctic hare; one did not roam through the Frostscape for hours without spotting such long-eared animals, so the instant Marek spotted one, he plucked out his ax and threw it toward the animal. The poor critter never had the chance to flee.

Fire came next, a solution already sorted out by striking enchanted metal against enchanted metal. The result was a spray of sparks that hustled into the pile of dry bushes, giving birth to a small but steady flame.

Better than rubbing two sticks. Take that, rangers. Marek mused with triumph.

Once sated from haremeat, Marek leaned his back on the improvised wall and sat on the quarreled ground, shuffling into comfort and groaning while his many wounds cooled.

What a day. This is the last time I volunteer for a quest.

Lastly, Marek stabbed Dalavut into the soil, one arm’s distance from his current lying position. The skull-engraved chappe shone with malice, its faint radiance a silent warning to most wild animals.

This would make any beast think twice before getting close.

The night transpired calmly: the wolves no longer chanted a cacophony of howls; the wind was not blowing with strength, its flow generating a whistle at the same time it made leaves rustle. More to the North, however, a more threatening noise arose. It was a set of dull screeches, a sound which could be easily confused by the vegetation’s rustle, but Marek knew better — those sounds were coming from raptors.

It was logical to believe the dinosaurs suffered their respective chapter of madness, the dragon’s presence reducing them to a chaotic bunch. Marek was glad the creatures were far away; given their alleged prowling capabilities, he was unwilling to test their sneaking skills when his body had not recovered from the last encounter.

Then, from the trees, a bird’s song: the hooting of an owl. The cry sounded nearby, and it took Marek a brief moment to detect the singer not far from where he lay. The darkness failed to conceal a pair of orbs shining with a yellow hue inside a hole, and a hint of white belonging to its plumage was even discernible.

For a pregnant moment, the fighter stared at the creature, recalling the events of the day: the wargs’ appearance, the veteran’s death, and the witnessing of an oddball chimera whose visage was similar to the arctic owl he was observing.

Marek exhaled a heavy sigh. “What other surprises would this barred land offer me?” He commented before closing his eyes, his fatigue making his bed a bit more inviting, plunging into what he foresaw could be a sleep short of dreams.

“ Hoo~ ”

Another cry echoed through the hills, and the warrior’s eyes winced open in response. Another bird’s cry should not have shaken Marek again, but there was something off about this one: it felt melodious, rougher but still dulcet, its pitch lower compared to the owl nestled in the tree. He had heard that cry once in the past, a scarce three hours ago.

You’ve got to be jesting.

Marek grew restless, his gloved hand creeping onto the handle of Dalavut and resting on top of its pommel, his eyes drifting around the landscape, expecting to catch a glimpse of a pair of silvery spheres glowing amid the darkness.

But the only light stemmed from the gaps of branches, flooding in like beams, and the faint embers from his fire.

Passed some tense minutes without a soul moving; the hooting of both animals resounded for a while, almost as if they were having a conversation. But as the clock spun, the tenderest of the cries stopped, leaving the arctic owl alone on its lullaby.

“Too shy to sing now that you have a new spectator?” Marek murmured, his stare unfocused yet sharp. A stagnant pause was born where the only noises were the owl’s cry and the wind’s whisper. Whatever surprises the fighter had been expecting never came, but that was little solace to dwindle his restlessness.

This night might drag out more of what I have foreseen…

————————————————————————————————————————————————

I did wrong.

At the other side of the valley nestled the culprit behind the adventurer’s sleeplessness, its plumage blended masterfully with the snowy crown of the tall vegetation, where it reposed.

Stoopid… why did I have to join the song? The hooman got upset because of my call.

A city plaza’s worth of distance separated the chimera from the human fighter, yet the sight of the former had no problem observing the man between the two pines. Its eyes, which could pierce through the heaviest of darkness and spot a squirrel on the ground from the clouds up, could not accurately distinguish the man’s features, but could notice the stress he was subject to.

As was customary, the chimera joined the harmonic song of the wilderness, responding to the call of another owl. Unexpectedly, the man seemed to recognize the creature’s cries among the noise of another owl, and not accustomed to the chimera’s presence — or existence, for that matter — he became somewhat ‘nervous’ or ‘upset,’ his hand taking the hilt of the bewitching steel.

Ever since the death of Gruhulla, the chimera had been following the fighter through the valley, the man closer and closer to Võshla — the sole town in the Frostscape that the owl-wolf creature deemed home, even if it could not enter without causing a ruckus.

I wonder if the man has something to do with Imbi. He was not scared off by my presence, just like she was...

Flustered by its carelessness, Howling Talon went against its wild instincts and abstained from joining the animal’s tune for the rest of the night, opting to take rest; many injuries inflicted by Gloom Fang and his pack awaited recovery. Given the avian monster’s preternatural condition, such a process would take no time.

And so, wrapping on its cushiony wings, the chimera sank into the dreamscape, relieved that once again it could enjoy sleeping, grateful to the man on the other side of the valley for restoring that privilege to Howling Talon.

————————————————————————————————————————————————

The next day unfolded as any wandering human amid the Frostscape would have expected: nerve-racking.

During the first half of the sun’s presence, Marek had to be wary of a certain individual who stepped on his tracks, the occasional flapping giving away the pursuer’s presence. Sometimes, the owl-thing would drop its sneaky behavior, hooting in response to another bird’s cry, only for the chimera to fall silent an instant later. Puzzlement touched Marek as he struggled to figure out what the creature was trying to pull out, a feeling that later transformed into exasperation.

Nevertheless, as the hours ticked by, the fighter’s concerns about the chimera had swapped, sibilant threats taking all his attention. When noon fell over the woods, the nyphanycus, better known as snow raptors, came forth in floods.

And for Blakesley’s ill fortune, he had been correct: the fake wyverns were suffering the ill effects of a wyrm’s visit.

The scene that unfurled was nothing that had not been told: the raptors, lost in their frenzy, harassed the human traveler until his only alternative was to swing his blades. Raptors came by the many, like a snow slide of feathers and talons, not as numerous as the wolves he battled the day before, but still abundant to discourage doing mental math.

The animalistic beset met an abrupt end when the owl chimera, or Howling Talon, as the humongous warg called back in the highlands, broke from the thick canopy. Marek would not admit it at first, but the unexpected entrance of the odd creature had saved him from further trauma.

A gory recreation and a booming shriek later, and the skirmish was over. The human suffered no more harassment during the rest of his trip to the subsequent human settlement, which, needless to say, loomed at the final stretch.

And there it lay: a brownish silhouette standing out amid the vast meadow and neighboring a mountainous range, a walled settlement beyond the border where tundra and forest blended together — Võhsla.

Stumbling upon the city was a small victory for Marek Blakesley, but a victory nevertheless. He reached the first stop of his hazardous journey. The only uncertainty that lingered on his head was whether the town had been wrecked by the flying calamity. Going by how the wooden wall stood whole, he assumed the city had avoided destruction, but there was no way to confirm that from his current standpoint. There was only one way to find it out.

The march, more a stroll given his relatively good mood, went on, sticks and ice crackling beneath his boots. However, a concerning thought manifested as a ghost inside his mind and germinated like a seed, a shadow of doubt that made him slow down until stillness.

The real tundra, denuded of pines, was an open field receptive to flying visitors, a hunting ground for winged predators.

Marek turned his head back to the woods; hints of the feathery beast’s whereabouts had been scarce since the clash with the dinosaurs — scarce, but not nonexistent. What if the creature waited for the moment he stepped into the open field? To expose himself to aerial attacks? That following him all that time was a demeanor that meant he had been targeted as a snacky prey?

The entity had the chance to kill him in the past, like when he was too busy dealing with raptors, for example, making him doubt whether the avian desired to get him dead. But monsters often lacked reasoning, so he could not apply such logic to the silent pursuer.

He needed to settle this affair once and for all, make sure the chimera would not dive over his unaware head while moving past the tundra. But how? I can’t just stay here and wait for the monster to show up by itself.

Marek meditated, trying to come up with a plan to confirm his worry. A beat later, an idea bloomed: the creature had cried as soon as another owl whistled, as if the chimera had the urge to complete a song. It was a childish idea, but if it worked, he could confirm the presence of the lupine owl.

A sigh escaped his mouth, and a murmur followed. “Can’t believe I’m going to do this.”

Putting his hands around his mouth to form a horn, Marek took a breath and then released a low cry, trying to imitate a nocturnal bird. The reproduction left much to be desired, the man sounding more like the whoop of some monkey than that of a bird, not to speak of an owl.

Nonetheless, the awkward shouts drew out for a minute before Marek decided to silence himself. Another suspenseful minute, and a response bounced between the trees until it reached his ears.

“Hoo— Hooo~”

There it is.

What were the chances? His moronic plan worked! Now that he confirmed the presence of the abnormal creature, the only thing left was to make sure the monster held no hostility toward him. If the owl-thing presented as dangerous, he would lunge at once and pray Seolvor so the creature fumbled in reading his very intention.

If not… Well, that could be sorted out later on.

“I know you lurk nearby, beast. No use in trying to avoid my senses.” Marek’s eyes strayed in all directions, trying to detect any bush that would give off a shake or a branch that would emit a crack.

“Look, I can’t keep looking over my shoulder all the time: I take your shadowing as a threat to my life, and if you continue, I’ll be forced to retaliate.” A hum vibrated, and Marek assumed that sound was produced by a pair of feathery appendages. “Make your intentions clear once and for all. I’m growing weary of your games.”

Finished that declaration, the fighter stood quiet, his fingers tapping in anticipation as the knob of Dalavut, hidden beneath the manticore cloak. His eyes were a tad narrowed, the eyelids heavy with preparedness as they scrutinized the surroundings.

What to do if the chimera doesn’t show up? Actually, what do I do if it shows up ? I talk sense and then become friends? Such a foolish idea. What was I thinking? Perhaps I should take the long path, round the mountain, and—

The snow crunched faintly, and he heard it; something — someone — was approaching. It came from his left, above a pile of snow adorned with bushes. The shrubs jiggled, and a white silhouette emerged. First, a beak peeped into view; then, the ears and horns; lastly, a pair of wings flattened against the back.

Marek froze, the fingers at the pommel halting their mannerism. The entity stood magnificent, plumage reflecting noon rays like the very snow, and its image imposed a pressure that Marek had overlooked.

It was that air of superiority, a preternatural halo that painted the chimera as a ruler, one both majestic and intimidating, like a deer and lion. His senses filtered all noise, his mouth dried into sandpaper levels, and his eyes lightened with awe. It was like the entire landscape grew dark, and the creature in front was all the color remaining — and that color was snow white, silvermist shining embedded on its mask.

No! Pull yourself together. “Enough!” bellowed the man, breaking out of the trance. What a bothersome ability.

The man’s wail startled the chimera, its ears slightly leaning backward, but it refrained from doing anything else.

Marek panted briefly after escaping the enthralling effect, then addressed the entity. “Well, here you are… Can I take that as you understanding my words?”

The chimera blinked and flapped one of its ears. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’”

The avian tentatively trotted down the mound, the human not blinking once as he followed every movement of the hybrid beast. He noticed the monster wore no grievous injuries, something absurd given the devastating thrashing that the warg had unleashed upon it. Only its forearms were marked with scars, and its right wing was still tainted with dried blood.

Once the creature dropped to his level, Marek spoke: “So… Howling Talon, isn’t it?” When the fighter mentioned that name, the chimera narrowed its steely eyes and issued a throaty, dog-like growl.

“Easy,” the human responded, his grasp on the longsword’s pommel hardening. Perhaps ‘Howling Talon’ is some sort of slur.

After that unfriendly exchange, the avian entity lowered its head and ears, its narrowed eyes focusing on the human. Marek could also hear faint sniffs coming out of its nose. Was the monster smelling him?

“Off to a good start,” he snarked under his breath. Let’s first try calming down the situation. “Well, first thing… uhm… I suppose I owe you a thank you.” The beast reacted with an ear flick. “Without you back there, the warg and his pack could have… could have hurt me badly.” As if I’m going to say the wolf-thing would have killed me.

The creature straightened both ears and head, its eyes no longer flashing contempt. Marek cleared his throat and continued his chatter, regaining his serious tone. “Getting that out of the way, why are you following me? I was clear before: I’m of no harm to you. If you think I’m going to hunt you or give you away to hostile humans, let me be clear: I don’t care. ” Given that the people in Grætøh skipped mentioning the existence of this beast, Marek concluded that the chimera was not an immediate menace to human beings, at least not at an alarming level.

“Now, I don’t care whether you speak or not, but I have a handful of problems without this doggy game of yours. So, just— shoo! ”

The avian entity eschewed any verbal response; rather, its ears winced flat against its skull. …? Did I somehow end up scolding this beast?

After a pregnant pause during which neither individual vocalized anything, the chimera started to stand up, adopting that human-like posture the black-haired fighter considered eccentric. Marek’s eyes regarded the motion with caution, his gaze following the big owl-like eyes at every moment. Only when a flash of light struck his retina did his eyes divert lower, noticing something metallic clutched by taloned hands.

A weapon? Marek frowned, thinking for an instant that violence was in order. However, he relaxed when he remembered such lethal items were redundant for the creature — its natural weaponry was deadlier than any non-magical blade.

Once the chimera rose to its hunched, bipedal stance, it extended its left arm and unfurled its fingers, revealing a length of sharp gray metal. It was Marek’s dirk, left behind hours ago in that one clearing.

The cloaked man stared at the piece of crafted steel, his lips pressed tight. He then shifted the gaze back to the owl-thing, his brow barely arching up. The gesture threw him off, he had to admit, but he remained unconvinced. His guard would not drop down.

Howling Talon noticed the human’s suspicion, its sight shifting between the dagger and the man, its mien somehow muddled. It jiggled the left arm back and forth, issuing soft coos. But Marek, ever distrustful, saw no kindness in that gesture.

“You want me to believe you’ve been following to give me the dagger back?” The chimera’s shoulders skipped upward, and its arm flinched back to its chest; somehow, the man’s bitter remark affected it in a way the speaker had not noticed yet. “Stalking me. Keeping me awake at night. You do have a weird way of expressing the desire for charity.” The beast took a step back, eyelids strained, as if they battled not to squeeze shut. “It’s not like I don’t appreciate the gesture, but after you follow me around? I would have appreciated it more if you simply shooed away. ”

Marek evaluated a few possible scenarios when he had opted to face the owl-wolf chimera: an animalistic assault, a thunderous shriek, a mute dialogue. But when he uttered those cold words, what followed was a phenomenon beyond the animal or monstrous realm. Howling Talon’s wings twitched, its beak went ajar as if it were to release a bark of sorts, and its ears cowered. Likewise, its eyes squinted, the furry form stumbling back another step.

The human fighter blinked, puzzled by the avian’s human response, all while the chimera’s eyes fell to its feet, its clawed hand tightening around the human tool, visibly shaking after a few blinks of seeing down. Congratulations, Blakesley, you upset the monster.

Marek took Dalavut’s handle beneath its cloak, expecting the worst. But instead of a beak spearing like a dagger or a talon swinging like a halberd, a dirk flew in his direction, or more precisely, in the direction of his feet.

Pfft!

The metal missed its mark. Or did it? Could that have been considered an attack? Sure, the toss carried what he recognized as a dash of hatred, but even if the dirk had hit him, the damage would have been minimal.

The young warrior caught the gleam of the weapon, now sunk in the snow, but rapidly latched his eyes back onto the monster. The chimera’s fierce, moonlike eyes were throwing daggers, its nostrils slowly flaring with rough whistles, expelling a cloud of fog with every blow.

“R— Roode! ” the creature blurted out, its voice smooth and dulcet yet boiling like seething water.

“Eh?—”

Howling Talon quickly swiveled back, spraying snow around and over Marek, and sprinted to where it had come from, not sparing the confused human the time to understand the situation. In an instant, the odd monster completely vanished from the scene and his view.

And there, at the border between the hilly woods and the plain tundra, stood a gawking and disconcerted Marek, his mouth slightly agape and brows knitted together.

“Did— did the creature speak?” He spat out. “And did it call me ‘rude’ or merely cooed?”

During the next minutes, Marek stood in the same spot, glancing at that pile of snow. Footprints belonging to avian talons and canine paws interspersed between each other, leaving a smeared trail along the hump.

“That must have been the weirdest ‘conversation’ I’ve ever had.” Tired already, Marek finally abandoned his bafflement with a head shake, crouching low to retrieve his dirk afterward. Why bother? What was that creature’s aim?

However, as soon as his fingertips grazed the handle, something else drew his sight, something even flashier than a piece of steel — a feather. As white as the snow around, the bird quill would not have been discernible if it was not for the silk hue it emitted under the blazing sphere’s light and the stain of dry blood across the tip.

Marek grasped the feather between two fingers and analyzed it. The remige was around one foot in length, nearly as long as Marek’s forearm. The man was unaware of the world surrounding the birds, but he knew no bird’s primary feathers were as long as this sample.

“The most curious specimen, indeed.” Marek kept the feather and, without more faltering, he moved toward Võhsla.

No more flaps echoed, and no hoot hummed — the owl-wolf monster was truly gone.

————————————————————————————————————————————————

The wooden gates of Võshla stood in front, their design humble compared to Grætøh’s iron-cast portcullis. The entrance was closed, with no sight of any guard outside the twelve-foot-tall wall.

However, a watchman surveyed from a contiguous watchtower, the square, wood-erected structure reaching twenty-five feet in height. The guard, whose appearance resembled a hunter more than an army warrior, snoozed carefree on top of the tower until he noticed a wanderer walking outside.

“Hey! What are you doin’ down there?! No civilian is allowed to venture out da walls until further notice!” The guard bellowed, his tone irritated. “Havin’ a death wish?”

“I come from Grætøh,” Marek declared.

“On your own? Did your friends kick da bucket back there, or you wanna pull my leg?” The watchman yelled, spitting skepticism. “Beasts went sick mad and fuckin’ warges were spotted in the region. Person alone in da Frostscape is as good as a snack during these times.”

“I’m here and alive, am I not?” The outsider said, not bothering to elaborate on how he had fared when traversing the valley.

The guard leaned on the watchtower’s edge, watching the man beneath with unhidden suspicion. The way he stared down seemed like his eye was about to pop free from its cavity. “Bah!” He backed straight, carefree anew. “You were lucky by not findin’ da bloody warges, that was it.” The loudmouth soldier waved a signal to a person below, an order to open the gates.

“Has any person entered the city in the last day?” Marek asked, trying to pass the time before the gates opened.

“Eh? Oh ye, we are a tourist wonder of sorts. All our inns overflow with drunkards and exotic dancers.” Marek’s lips remained flat, unamused by the sarcasm. “Kiddin’ aside, ye: we’ve been receivin’ some influx of refugees comin’ from towns at da North and East. Poor wretched people.

“Also, yesterday, some bunch of heroes wannabe came in. This Mørk ‘Mad Ax’ was with ‘em. Wanted to kill da lizard or some stupid shit like that.” The guard then widened his eyes as if he had an epiphany. “Hold da horse… are ya tryin’ to catch with ‘em?”

The looming doors creaked loudly, and the gates started to swing open. “Perhaps. What I desire to do here is my concern.”

The guard blinked, then scoffed. “‘Perhaps.’ Pff, want to kill da dragon as well, don’t ya?” The guard chortled a little more. “You are all a frozen meal, you know that?”

Marek only shrugged, not in the mood to satisfy that man’s mockery. He was about to move past the gates when a thought crept into his mind. “You said there were wargs out there. Is there any other dangerous beast that people should worry about?”

The watchman rubbed his chin for a second before responding. “Raptors, normal-ass wolves, some cat… If you bring mice with you, better stay wary of owls. And beware when approachin’ behind a reindeer: took their hooves in my gut once, hurt like hell. A li’l lower and might have retired as a monk or whatever ballless fellas do nowadays.”

“No other kind of monster present?” Marek pushed.

“Nein. Monsters consider our town a waste of time. Now, get movin’! If a thing appears, I’m orderin’ my bois to close da doors, and you’ll be stayin’ outside.”

Undisrupted by the bigmouthed soldier’s words, Marek walked past the wooden gates but not without shooting a last glance behind.

I need a drink.